Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [53]
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 re'ady 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