Realms of War

moment of quiet triumph. Captain Lamphor was the last of Bunlap's mercenaries.

For nearly four years, she had hunted humans who'd sought to enrich themselves through the slaughter of the Wealdath's great trees and the destruction of the elves who lived among them. Four years of plots and lies, four years of quietly shed blood.

Four years of forgetting what it was to be sy Tel'Quessir, so that her people could keep the memory alive.

Foxfire, the tribe's battle leader, would not approve of Ferret's sacrifice. Even her brother Rhothomir, who had little use for humans, would be appalled if he knew what she did when she slipped away from the forest. They all remembered what had followed the accidental death of Tethyr's King Errilam, some ninety years ago. Errilam died in the Wealdath, and many humans had refused to believe the sy Tel'Quessir played no part in his death. The last three kings of Tethyr had sanctioned the slaughter of the forest elves. Ferret expected no better from Zaranda, the latest would-be monarch. Even if she managed to hold her throne and proved to be an honorable ruler, her subjects were accustomed to regarding elves with suspicion and taking brutal retribution for wrongs real and imagined. Ferret well knew the price her people would pay if her private war came to light.

The narrow corridor beyond Lamphor's room was dark and silent. The elf crept down the back stairs to the second floor. Here the halls were wider, with faded Calishite carpets on the floor and a few candles burning in tarnished wall sconces. At its midpoint, the hall opened into a circular bal shy;cony, half of which overhung the grand hall-now employed as an armory-and half overlooking the back garden. The doors to the outer balcony had been left open to let in the cool night air.

Ferret slipped out into the darkness. She grimaced at the sight of two large men sprawled near the door, snoring lustily. Never before had she seen guards posted on the balcony. Most likely they'd brought their pallets out into the night breeze. She stepped over them carefully. The rhythm of their breathing did not falter.

As she started forward, one of them grabbed her ankle with a suddenness that sent her pitching forward.

Ferret managed to catch herself with her hands, but still her forehead met the tile hard enough to send white sparks shooting through her vision. Rough hands seized her and dragged her to her feet.

Her back slammed into a broad, hard chest. Long, sinewy arms held her fast. Ferret quickly abandoned the idea of struggle. Her captor was tall-her toes barely met the floor, and he had her arms clamped firmly to her sides. She sagged forward, her head lolling in defeat.

Her apparent surrender had the desired effect; the man holding her loosened his grip. Not much, Ferret noted with grudging respect, but enough for her purposes.

'Another damn deserter,' the second soldier muttered as he rose to his feet. 'That's three this tenday.'

Ferret's captor was big, but the man facing her probably outweighed him by half. He knocked the cap from her head and thrust his face close to hers. His eyes widened in surprise.

'What have we here?' he murmured. Taking the elf's chin in one massive hand, he tipped her face up to catch the moonlight.

Ferret struck like her feral namesake, her teeth sinking deep into his neck. She wrapped her legs around his body and clung like a leech for as long as it took.

It didn't take long.

The man holding Ferret flung her away and caught his dying companion. As he staggered under the big man's weight, Ferret spat out a mouthful of blood and pulled a slim, curved knife from her boot. She couldn't reach the smaller man's throat, so she thrust her blade hilt-deep into his eye. Before he could cry out, she wrenched the hilt hard to one side and gave the knife a sharp, brutal turn, as if cranking a winch. The man was dead before he and his comrade hit the floor.

Ferret's lips firmed into a grim line as she regarded the entangled bodies. This was not good. No one was likely to seek out Lamphor before morning, but these men might be seen by any soldier who happened to pass by.

She hurried to the balcony's edge, following the heady scent of franchillia blossoms. Nimbly she climbed the rail and scrambled down the thick, flowering vines. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she started running for all she was worth.

Ferret skirted the mile-long path leading to the Trade Road, following a jagged course among the hillocks and rocky outcrops that characterized the land east of the sea cliffs. Soon she had the Trade Road in sight, and beyond it, the sweep of grasses and brush leading into the forest. She was almost to the road when a horn's blast split the still night air.

The baying of dogs answered the call.

Fear skimmed along the elf's spine, chilling her like a ghoul's caress. Tethyrian hounds were fearful creatures, long-legged and barrel-chested. Bred from mastiffs and racing dogs, they were fleet enough to run down deer, and so fierce that two of them could pull down a bugbear.

Ferret darted across the road and into the brush, twisting and turning as she ran. The belling cries of the hounds changed to excited barking, a sure sign that they'd found her trail and were closing in fast.

The trees were too small and far apart for the elf to escape into the canopy. Once she climbed, she'd be trapped-beyond the teeth of the hounds, yes, but easy prey for the men coming behind them.

Clouds parted, and moonbeams stabbed deep into a stand of young duskwood trees. Ferret caught a glimpse of reflective eyes near the upturned roots of a fallen elder tree. Only a moment passed before the lights disappeared into the tiny root-cave, but the elf's keen eyes registered a silvery coat and a long, plumy tail. It was a wolf, and a large one, perhaps preternaturally so.

She had only a moment to decide.

The crash of brush announced that the dogs were well past the Trade Road. Ferret ran directly toward the wolf's den. If she was wrong, she was dead.

At least the wolf would be quicker and kinder than the dogs.

Elaith Craulnober could not remember when he'd last felt so content, so at peace with himself and the world. Nor could he think of another place in all Faerыn he'd rather be. The garden behind Danilo Thann's Waterdeep townhouse filled him with nostalgia for Evermeet, and for once, those memories were untainted with shame or regret.

In this walled haven grew plants unique to Evermeet: tiny sapphire-hued grapes, delicate white 'welcome trumpets' so sensitive to heat they would turn toward anyone entering the garden, uniquely fragrant herbs, and even some of the sky blue roses associated with the royal moon elves. How Danilo had persuaded the elves of that reclusive island kingdom to part with such treasures was beyond Elaith's powers of imagination.

But the moon elf's favorite part of the garden was the tree-lined alee set aside for sword practice. Elaith had a fine elven weapon in his hand, a skilled sparring partner, and a worthy task before him. Life was good indeed.

His opponent, a tall half-elf female, came at him in a running attack. Elaith caught her sword with his and spun their enjoined blades down and around in a circular parry, turning as he went. The move brought them face to face, swords crossed and pointing upward.

The half-elf leaned in and delivered a straight-armed jab over their crossed swords. Elaith caught her fist with his free hand.

'A bold move, Princess Arilyn, but a risky one. You could lose your dagger hand that way.'

She shook him off and stepped back. 'Don't call me that. But you're right about the risk. It was a stupid move. I meant to press your sword down and back while I struck-'

'But you could not,' Elaith finished. 'You haven't the strength.'

Arilyn grimaced. 'Not yet.'

She came in again. Elaith parried two quick thrusts and a lunge with easy economy of motion. Their swords slid apart with a metallic hiss as Arilyn fell back.

As they circled each other, Elaith took a moment to study his opponent. As always, that meant forcing his way past the half-elf's resemblance to Amnestria, a princess of Evermeet.

His princess.

The task at hand, Elaith reminded himself, was seeing Amnestria's daughter back to fighting form.

The half-elf's too-familiar face was set in determined lines, but it was drawn and thin, and far too pale. Pain