Realms of War

He heard footsteps. Not the crunch of heavy feet breaking through snow, but the light tread that-damn it all- reminded him of nothing but the careful pace of a wolf. But this wolf walked on two legs.

The elf crouched in the snow on the other side of Holwan's corpse. Gethred looked up. It was not the tall one who had challenged Vurzhad. But it was one of the others who had accompanied him. The elf wore clothes now-all leather, skins, and fur, simple but expertly crafted. Where he'd come by them, Gethred did not know.

'I am called Leren,' said the elf.

Gethred swallowed and said, 'Gethred.'

'Gethred, you saved the life of my daughter. I am in your debt. Thank you.'

Gethred did not know what to say, so he simply nodded.

'Are you hurt?' asked the elf. 'Your face …'

'Just scraped and bruised, I think.'

'We will see to your injuries. You are hungry?'

Gethred's throat burned, and his mouth still tasted of bile. 'No.'

The elf nodded then looked down on Holwan. 'This one was your friend?'

Gethred almost said, 'No,' but he thought better of it and said, 'He died defending me.'

'We will honor his body as you wish.'

'Thank you.' The thought of a funeral made Gethred realize he had no idea how the Khassidi dealt with their dead. Burial? A pyre? A tomb? He had no idea. Then he remembered something else. 'There may be … others.'

'Others?'

'Like this one. Tuigan. They are… not my friends.'

The elf's brows knit together in confusion. 'You mean the other horsemen?'

Gethred nodded.

'They were not your friends?'

'No.'

Leren's scowl deepened.

'It is a long story,' said Gethred.

'The horsemen,' said the elf, 'several died, as did their horses. A few survived. When last our people saw them, they were headed east into the steppe as if the Beastlord himself nipped their heels. Does this please you?'

Gethred shrugged.

'Are you well, Gethred?'

'What is going to happen to me?'

'Happen?'

'What do you plan to do with me?'

'Do?' The elf cocked his head, and a grin seemed to be trying to break out on his mouth.

'Those… horsemen. They were my captors.'

'Those horsemen are gone,' said Leren. 'It is as I said: You saved my only daughter. I am in your debt. We will see to your needs, then lead you on your way. At the very least. The Vil Adanrath honor our debts. The son of the omah nin will do no less.'

'Omah…?'

'The chief of my people,' said Leren. 'The chief of chiefs. My father.'

'So you are… a prince?'

Leren's grin finally broke. 'Something like that.'

'Where is'-a sudden shudder shook Gethred so hard that his teeth rattled-'the omah nin?'

'When last I saw him he was ordering our warriors to gather enough of Vurzhad's hide to make a blanket.'

'A blanket?'

'The omah nin swore that my daughter would sleep in Vurzhad's skin tonight, but in the fight… his anger got the better of him.'

'He's really making the bearskin into a blanket? I thought that was only a boast.'

Leren's face became very grave. 'The omah nin does not give empty boasts. What he says, he does.'

'Gods,' said Gethred. 'I want to go home.'

The author would like to thank Teresa Tsimmu Marino for her gracious assistance in answering his many questions on the best way to free an injured wolf from a snare. Be sure to check out her website at www.wolftown.org.

REDEMPTION

Elaine Cunningham

The Year of the Banner (1368 DR)

The night was quiet but for the distant murmur of the sea and the faint chorus of snores rising from the second floor of Kirgard Manor. What had once been fine bedchambers filled with the trappings of a noble household now held a garrison of Tethyrian soldiers, sleeping nearly shoulder to shoulder on thin pallets. Officers slept on the third floor in tiny rooms that once housed the manors servants. These chambers offered but two luxuries: a narrow bed and privacy. A clever man with coins to spare could make do with that.

Judging from the gleam in his eyes and the smirk half hidden beneath his thick black mustache, Captain Lamphor considered himself a clever man. Who but he, his expression demanded, could have managed to have a Calishite courtesan smuggled into the garrison?

The courtesan allowed herself a hard, fleeting smile. Who indeed?

She brushed back her veil, revealing a skillfully painted face framed by a turban of autumn-colored silks. Coyly she turned away, eying him over one slowly bared shoulder as she dropped her outer robe to the floor. As she spun back toward him, translucent silk swirled around her slender brown body.

'Take that off,' Lamphor said in a thick voice.

The courtesan gathered up a handful of the filmy cloth as she swayed toward him. 'These silks are as soft as a maiden's sigh,' she assured him in a sultry whisper. 'They hide nothing, and add much.'

Lamphor reached for her. As they tumbled together onto the cot, he snatched off her turban.

For a moment he lay staring down at her. His chuckle started low in his belly, shaking them both with his quiet, unpleasant mirth.

'I'm a suspicious man,' he said softly, 'and thought the turban might be hiding a knife. But a green elf whore?' He tugged none too gently at a pointed ear. 'This I did not expect.'

The elf twisted beneath him, a serpent-quick movement that surprised Lamphor and tipped him off the narrow cot. He rolled aside and managed to get to his knees before she leaped onto his back. One small hand fisted in his hair and jerked his head back, the other swept a bone knife across his throat, hard and fast and deep.

The elf known to her people as Ferret rose to her feet, still gripping the dying man's hair. She pulled his head back and captured his swiftly fading gaze with a cold, fierce glare.

'You were wrong about the whore,' Ferret whispered, 'but right about the knife.'

She spat into his face and shoved him to the floor. Moving quickly, she shed her filmy garment and tugged on the dark shirt and leggings she'd tucked into the lining of her robe. She draped a dark scarf over her head and put Lamphor's cap over it. The cap was too big, but it lent her dark clothes the illusion of the 'uniform' worn by the new queen's ragtag army. And Tethyr's soldiers often wore head scarves to shade their faces and necks from the southern sun. If glimpsed from a distance, she could pass.

Ferret was pulling on her boots when the man's last gurgling breath faded into silence. She allowed herself a