way myself. Did you pass close to the white cliffs, some several days' travel to the north? Good. I shall send you there.'
The wizard stretched out one hand. He clenched it into a fist, then made a quick sweeping motion to one side. There was a brief flash of light, and the Moon elves were gone.
'Hmph,' the wemic grunted, obviously unimpressed by this solution to their visitors' problem. 'They're not dressed for the trail.'
'They are now. All their original belongings are with them, as well as most of the things they acquired in the city. Except for this harp,' Ka'Narlist said, his lip curling as he cast a derisive glance at the instrument. 'Dispose of this tinkling horror at the first opportunity.'
'As you wish, master. But the elves-you just let them go,' the wemic said, a question in his catlike eyes. 'You had thought to give them in sacrifice to your god.'
Ka'Narlist shrugged. 'Fetch me another pair of white elves from the slave market-Ghaunadar will not mind the substitution. I have a different use for the northerners.'
He waited for the wemic to ask, but the slave merely gazed at him-or past him. Ka'Narlist chuckled.
'You are stubborn, Mbugua. I see you wish to know, but I could flay your hide from your bones before you would ask. Very well, then. As you know, the dark elves are not the only People wielding powerful High Magic. Our raiders have been perhaps a bit too zealous of late, and conflict between the races of elves escalates. In time, there will be war, and the fair races have much to avenge. As things now stand, the outcome of such a war is in no way certain. And yet, if our visitor speaks the truth-'
Here Ka'Narlist paused and raised an eyebrow in question. The wemic knew what was expected. He had been a shaman among his own people, and he was still well versed in reading the hearts and spirits of those around him.
The slave grudgingly nodded an affirmation. 'He speaks truth.'
'In that case, I should very much like to acquire some of these winged elves. Sharlario Moonflower is a merchant. Perhaps he could be persuaded to provide me with a few.'
The wemic did not need to ask what use his master had for such exotic creatures: The castle dungeons and grounds were teeming with the results of Ka'Narlist's magical tampering. And he knew his master well enough to suspect what in particular he had in mind.
'You would make winged dark elves,' Mbugua stated.
'Night flyers,' the wizard affirmed, his crimson eyes misted with the vision of future glories. 'What an amazing army they would make! Invisible against the night sky, armed with dark-elven weaponcraft and magic!'
The wemic shook his head, not only to express his doubts, but to shake the horrific image from his mind. 'But the red-pelt is an honorable elf. He will not bring his winged brothers to you as slaves.'
Ka'Narlist only smiled in return. 'It is a rare merchant who will not be swayed by enough gold and gems. But say that you are correct about our red-haired friend. Do you forget how you came to this keep? Have you forgotten the raid that enslaved your clan and all but destroyed your savannah? Have the scars from my chains faded from your wrists and paws? Has the stench of your dead mate's burning fur been banished from your dreams?'
The wemic did not respond to the dark elf's taunting. He knew better, though his throat ached with the effort of holding back roars of anguish and fury.
'You have sent raiders to follow the red-pelted elves,' Mbugua murmured as soon as he could trust himself to speak.
'Nothing so crude as that. I have sent a scrying jewel with him. Why else would I trade a prince's weapon for a peasant's trinket?' the dark elf reasoned. 'If Sharlario Moonflower's tales are true, then Mahatnartorian will try to reclaim his mountain kingdom and avenge himself on these avariel, these winged elves. I would like to observe these creatures in battle, learn their strength and their customs. If the winged elves show promise, then I will follow Sharlario to their hidden places. When I have need of these avariel to serve in my own war, I will send raiders to harvest them.'
'This war-it is coming soon?'
Try as he might, the wemic could not keep a note of hope from his voice. In such a conflict there was a chance of defeat for his master-and freedom for himself and his kin.
The dark elf's smile mocked these dreams. 'Not for many thousands of years, my loyal servant,' he said softly. 'But do not trouble yourself on my account-I will still be alive and in power, and my people will win the battle handily. And you, my dear wemic, will still be around to witness this victory-in one form or another. This, I promise you!'
As sunrise broke over the eastern hills, Durothil crouched on the blasted plateau that had once been a sacred dancing hill. The elven mage was motionless but for the green eyes that scanned the southern skies. For years now he had spent hours at a time on this mountain, keeping watch and strengthening both his plans and his resolve.
It had taken him a long time to figure out what Sharlario Moonflower was doing. The Moon elf traveled incessantly, seeking out elven communities and enlisting their help for a coming battle. From what Durothil could gather, the great red dragon who had blasted this mountaintop had been bested and sent into exile by the winged elves, with Sharlario's assistance. Dragons, from all accounts, followed certain codes of battle and behavior. Red dragons were treacherous creatures who did so only with great reluctance-and who usually exacted vengeance later. The time of banishment was almost up.
That morning had dawned bright and clear, but the wind was sharp with the promise of coming winter. Durothil rose and began to move about, swinging his arms to warm himself. He walked over to the edge of the plateau and gazed out over the foothills into the southern sky. There was no sign yet of the approaching red dragon.
A breeze swept up from the steep cliff below, bearing a strange odor to the watchful elf. Puzzled, Durothil wrinkled his nose and tried to place it. There was a powerful scent of musk, with an sweetish note reminiscent of the lemon trees that once had bloomed in the royal gardens of Tintageer.
Suddenly Durothil found himself looking directly into an enormous pair of yellow eyes. The shock froze his feet to the mountain even as his well-trained mind took note of details: those eyes were each as big as his own head, they were slashed with vertical pupils and bright with a malevolent intelligence, and they were set in a terrifying reptilian face armored with platelike scales the color of old blood.
As the stunned elf stared, something like a smile lifted the corners of the creature's maw. Steam wafted from wet and gleaming fangs.
'You have much to learn of dragons, little one,' the great creature rumbled, punctuating his comment with a puff of sulfur-scented smoke. 'We have wings, yes, but we also have legs! People always expect to be warned by the crash of underbrush and the clanking of scales, when in truth no mountain cat walks in greater silence.'
Durothil shook his head in dazed denial. This was not at all how this meeting was supposed to go. All his magic, all his careful preparations, were locked in some inaccessible part of his mind by the paralysis of dragonfear. The elven mage knew better than to look into a dragon's eyes, of course, and he would never have done so had the creature not surprised him. Now, he was as helpless as a trapped mouse awaiting a raptor's strike.
The dragon's wings unfurled with a sound like a thunderclap and then thumped rhythmically as Mahatnartorian rose into the air. He wheeled slowly about, holding Durothil's eyes with his hypnotic gaze and forcing the elf to turn with him as he circled around and lowered himself onto the center of the plateau. The dragon lifted his horned head and sniffed at the air.
'There is interesting magic about, elf. Yours?'
Durothil nodded, despite all his attempts to resist the creature's power.
The dragon settled, tucking his front paws under his chest and wrapping his tail around his scale-covered body. Something about the posture brought to the elf's mind an incongruous picture of a bored house cat.
'I would like to see what magic you've prepared against me,' Mahatnartorian continued, in much the same tone as a king might command a performance from a jester of scant renown. 'Do your best, little elf. Oh, don't look so surprised-or so hopeful. The best wizards of the south could do nothing to harm me. My resistance to magic is too powerful,' he said complacently.
'Then how did Sharlario Moonflower subdue you?'
The words were out before Durothil could consider the consequences. As he cursed his fear-addled tongue,
