Realms of War

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 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 bal­cony, 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.