The drivers stiffened in their seats. “Ready!” the lead one cried. “Ready!” the next called out, then the next, and the next.
The wagons ceased swaying and grew still. Soon the only sounds came from outside the plaza, the murmur of citizens going about their business, and the rumble of carts through the streets.
For several long moments, nothing happened. The drivers sat ready in their seats, hands occasionally flicking the reins. A whistle shrilled and as one, the drivers dropped the reins and lunged sideways on their seats, pushing hard on levers that Leifander assumed were brakes.
Hinges squealed and, with loud thumps and bangs, the sides of each wagon fell open, revealing a flat platform behind the driver’s seat. Archers stood on it, facing outward, arrows nocked and bows at full draw. Taking only a heartbeat to aim, they loosed their arrows, which sang through the air toward the targets. They drew again, and shot, and again, and shot, filling the plaza with a deadly rain of arrows. Many struck the wooden walls or shutters of the buildings behind-but many more thudded into their targets. One of these, battered by a flurry of arrows, topped sideways and fell, like a man slowly dying. Others jerked and tore apart into sprays of straw. Only after each archer had shot an entire quiverful of arrows did the thrumming bows at last fall silent.
A whistle shrilled a second time, the archers lowered their empty bows, and the sergeant strode back into the plaza.
Leifander grimaced at he had just witnessed: a deadly trap that would take the forest elves completely by surprise-a trap that could be made even more deadly still if any of the hidden warriors were capable of wielding magic. The elves would come willingly to the bait, thinking the unguarded wagons soft and ripe, like jawa fruits ready to be plucked and peeled. When they attacked the “caravan,” they would be cut down in droves.
Leifander crouched and spread his wings, preparing to take off from the rooftop. He needed to get back to the forest as quickly as he could, to warn the others. He-
Could not move. His body had become as rigid as a statue. He tried to draw in his wings, but though his muscles ached with the strain, not a single feather ruffled. His legs were likewise frozen in place, and though he continued breathing, his breath came short and shallow, drawn in and out of a chest that barely moved. With a rising panic, he realized he must be the victim of a spell.
He heard the scrape of a boot on the slate behind him and tried to cock his head but could not. Peripheral vision showed him the outline of a human climbing up from behind the peak of the roof and silhouetted against the morning sun, but the only detail he could make out was the fellow’s raised hand. With a sinking heart, he realized he must be a wizard or cleric-one who had crept up on him and used a spell to immobilize him.
In the plaza below, the archers were pointing in his direction and talking in low voices. Cursing himself for a fool, Leifander realized that he had tarried there too long-that the humans must have been anticipating a spy. Whether they thought Leifander a wizard’s familiar or knew that he was a shapeshifter didn’t really matter. Either way, he had been caught and now would be executed. Worse yet, he had failed his people. If he didn’t manage to warn the elves about what the wagons concealed, he wouldn’t be the only one to die.
Darkness descended in the form of a large leather sack that engulfed him, then was drawn shut.
When Leifander regained his senses, he was still in darkness-in his elf form, lying naked on a cold stone floor. His body was bruised and aching, as though someone had taken the sack he’d been in and beaten it against the wall-though he doubted that even humans would be so stupid as to try to kill a spy before questioning him. No, the ache in his bones was probably the aftermath of the spell that had immobilized him.
Whatever had transpired after his capture on the rooftop, he had no clear memory of it, just a vague remembrance of the sack opening, of trying to fly free and being caught by strong hands, and of shifting into elf form to fight back against three powerfully muscled humans armed with clubs while a wizard stood by, leaning on a staff, and …
Leifander winced, and raised a hand to rub his temple. A chain rattled in the darkness, jerking his arm to a halt. Unable to reach his head, he gave up. He already knew what his questing fingers would find: a tender spot, and dried blood.
Cold bands on his other wrist and both ankles must be manacles. By the way the clanking of their chains filled the space, he knew he was in a small cell.
With that realization, claustrophobia overwhelmed him. Mind reeling, all he could do was sit and tremble. So used to the open skies above had he become that even the tents of his people seemed too close, too small. Now he was closed in, sealed into a cell, forgotten and left to rot-in a space no larger than a tomb. He was going to die there.
With an effort, he pulled his thoughts back from the brink of the tunnel they were about to spiral down into. Concentrate, he told himself, steady your breathing-but it was difficult. He was woozy and thirsty and shivering from the cold that seeped into his very bones from the stone below. He still had his magic, though, and the manacles wouldn’t hold him for long. He tucked his feet under him and eased his body into a squatting position.
Drawing a deep breath, he focused his will, initiating a shift. He imagined his outstretched, fluttering fingers as feathers, his nose and mouth as a beak, his body shrinking …
Nothing happened.
Concentration broken, Leifander squatted in the darkness, heart hammering inside his chest. Impossible! He jerked against the chains in frustration, lost his balance, and toppled to the floor.
Cold iron still clamped his wrists and ankles. Perhaps that was what was wrong-perhaps the manacles had been enchanted to prevent him from skinwalking. But as he rose to a squat once more, he realized the real reason. He could no longer feel bangs brushing against his forehead or the tickle of the feathers braided into them.
With a trembling hand, he reached up, at the same time bending his body and lowering his head. By straining, he could just reach his forehead. What he felt there nearly stopped his heart. All that remained of his bangs were several rough tufts of hair, hacked short just above the scalp. Shifting his hand to his ear, he felt an empty hole where the gilded bone should have been. His longer braid still hung down his back, but his captors had removed the crow feathers and bone earring that allowed him to work his magic.
For several long moments he forgot to breathe. Dizzy, he at last drew a shuddering breath, then he prayed.
“Winged Mother, Lady of the Air and Wind, hear my prayer,” he cried out, his voice sounding thin and strained in the tiny space. “Do not forsake me. Peer down into this dark and terrible place, wherever it may be, and lend me your wings. Lift my spirit, mend my body, and soothe my soul.”
From somewhere outside the cell came the sound of metal clinking against metal. Footsteps approached, and with them, a light that gradually limned a rectangular doorway. For a moment, a thin shaft of warm yellow light shone in through a keyhole, then it blinked out as a key was thrust into the lock. Metal grated as tumblers turned, and the door opened and light flooded into the room.
Blinded by the sudden rush of light, Leifander could make out little of the man who had opened the door. By squinting, he caught a glimpse of harsh features, blond hair and beard, and a mail shirt and helm. Behind the man was a narrow corridor, its far wall having at least two doors set with stout locks. The man nodded and called back over his shoulder to someone farther down the corridor.