“Good girl,” Jeratt whispered.
One of his warriors looked up. He shook his head, and they all settled to silence, so still that the high shrill cry of a nightjar startled Jeratt.
“All right now,” he whispered.
From the campsite came a harsh curse, sudden shouting. Jeratt held his people still with one gesture. Another cry, more cursing and the sounds of night creatures fleeing. The bright clash of steel, a sudden scream too loud to be human.
A horse down!
“Hush,” Jeratt said to the restless warrior beside him. “Wait”
They saw the faint red flickers of men and women in combat. The forest filled with cries now, bellowing human rage and the eerie banshee cries of the Night People.
“Watch,” Jeratt whispered, his lips close to the other elf’s ear. “See.”
See it all, the shape of the battle. Jeratt grinned coldly, and the woman warrior made a small, satisfied sound as, pursued, Thagol’s Knights fled the campsite, all but one on foot. Eager now, Jeratt watched a handful of his men pretend to flight. Swiftly they came through the forest, leaping streamlets, blow downs, boulders, and leading the Knights onto rough ground. In this way, the hunt came crashing through the forest, tearing through the underbrush, the Knights believing themselves in pursuit of ambushing foes. Furious, driven by Thagol’s cursing, the humans tore past Jeratt and the remainder of his warriors, and at the exact moment Thagol passed him, Jeratt sent another nightjar cry into the darkness.
His eager warriors burst from cover. Voices high and howling, in one swift maneuver they blocked the Knights’ pursuit. Turning, the elves circled the five humans, a noose tightening. Afoot, four had no chance against the greater number. Three died at once, the fourth after a flashing steel struggle.
The fifth Knight, Thagol, was still mounted. He abandoned the field before the first Knight died.
Kerian saw her people slip into position, half in the forest shadows beyond the tavern’s dooryard and half in back, both exits covered. She looked for Bayel and found him coming around the back of the tavern. He dropped to a knee beside her at the overgrown verge of the tavern’s wood lot, never rustling leaf or branch.
“Seven inside,” he said. “The taverner, two Knights and four draconians.”
She nodded then leaned close. “We’re ready. Remember the taverner.”
Bayel’s eyes on the Waycross and the golden light shining out from the windows, front and back, he said, “It’ll be done as you wish, Kerian.”
Someone-or something-passed before the wide window looking into the tavern’s front yard. Draconian by the shape, Kerian thought. It stood too tall to be an elf, the shape of it too grotesque to be either human or elf. The tavern door opened, and the wind shifted. Two draconians came out into the night. She smelled their dry reptilian stink, the bite of the acid reek of their breath. Here, outside the forest, stars shone brightly. The sky was awash with them. Their silvery light glinted from the harnesses of the draconians, metal buckles, polished leather, a bright length of steel as one unsheathed a long knife.
“Got it off that elf,” the creature growled. It laughed, a ripping sound. “Right before his head exploded.”
Bayel moved restlessly. Kerian clamped a hard hand on his arm.
“No,” the other snarled. “Didn’t explode, did it? Bone and brains all over?”
The first draconian shrugged. “Might as well have. Blood pouring out of it everywhere, mouth, ears, and eyes. That lord of ours-” It laughed again. “He’s got a searching way about him, eh?”
They stood for a moment admiring the blade, arguing a little about whether it should have been given over to the Lord Knight and deciding that since Lord Thagol hadn’t asked for it, there was no need to offer. Kerian watched them walk away from the Waycross toward the road. They’d take up guard posts there, she thought. Thagol was gone, probably most of his Knights with him. He was an arrogant bastard, but he wouldn’t leave his headquarters unguarded.
She was right, and when she saw them settled, one at the north-south road and the other at the east-west, she nodded to Bayel.
An owl’s rattling cry tore the night’s silence. One of the draconians looked up, expecting to see the raptor bursting up from the woods, a struggling rabbit in its talons. It looked again then turned to its companion. The other shrugged.
“Bad luck,” it said. “I guess-”
Four arrows wasped from the forest. The draconian jerked as though yanked to attention. It screamed a curse and fell, dying and filling the night with the sting of acid. Four more arrows tore out of the wood. Two missed and one bounded off the second draconian’s scaled hide. The missile fell into the pool of green acid that had been the body of the first, the wood hissing as the arrow died. The fourth took the draconian in the soft underside of its neck.
The draconian howled, clawing at the arrow in its throat The front door slammed open, a human voice called a question.
Kerian slapped Bayel’s shoulder as the clearing around the Waycross erupted in the high keening battle cries Lord Thagol’s men had come to hate.
Kerian ran into the howling as her warriors converged on the tavern. She heard someone scream, a high shriek that was no battle cry, and she saw an elf die in the terrible embrace of the draconian he had killed. The stink of acid, of burning flesh, hung on the night, and soon the reek of blood joined it.
A Knight filled up the front door, golden firelight glaring behind him so that he was faceless. The light ran on his drawn sword, and Kerian leaped up the two stairs to the long porch, her own sword in hand. One downward stroke, and the man’s blood spurted from a severed hand. His sword fell with a dull thud onto the wooden porch, Kerian kicked it aside, the hand still gripping. In horror, the Knight saw that and finally felt the agony. He howled, and Kerian lunged for him, thrusting. She felt bone scrape her steel, and swiftly she kicked the dead Knight off her blade.
Another scream came from behind the tavern. Knight or elf, she couldn’t tell and didn’t stop to wonder. The swell of elf voices behind her merged with the shouts inside the tavern. Kerian plunged through the doorway, into the chaos of shouting and ringing steel.
“Elf bitch!”
She turned, sword high, and the jolt of a heavy blade striking hers rang all the way up her arm. Kerian fell back a step. The Knight pressed. She let him, moving step and step, maneuvering him until his back was to the door. Behind, she felt the sudden heat of fire, and out of the corner of her eye she saw she was near the hearth. Flames leaped up the walls from behind the bar, roaring and eating the thick oak boards. Even as she saw that, she saw the tav-erner Wael flee out the back.
The Knight brought his sword down. Again she felt the blow up to her shoulders. She fell back another step, but the Knight’s sword held hers now, pressing her with all his strength. She did not try to match him. She seemed to yield, to weaken before his greater strength. His eyes lit with furious hatred. She stepped back again then swiftly turned, her sword describing a bright circle in the fiery light. Overbalanced by his thrust, the Knight stumbled, and Kerian came about so quickly she thought it likely he never felt her blade slip and turn between his ribs.
“Kerian!”
She turned to see Bayel, his eyes wide.
She turned again and saw a draconian rushing at her from the flames of the burning tavern. The last one, and she dared not engage it, for to kill this thing and be anywhere near it dying was to die herself.
“Get down!” Bayel shouted.
Kerian dropped, falling to her knees in the blood of the dead Knight.