Silver Shadows - Elaine Cunningham [80]
The other humans were not quite so lucky. The archers under Wyndelleu's command bombarded them with a small storm of arrows; most clattered harmlessly off the wooden shields, but a few got through. No humans sustained mortal wounds, but at least a few of them would be slowed during the battle to come.
Undeterred by the cries of his comrades and the arrows that flamed and fizzled around him, the wizard began to move his fingers rapidly in some sort of silent, arcane language. He concluded by banging both hands together. The result was like a summer storm, like lighting and thunder combined into one killing stroke.
A thunderclap rolled outward from his hands and through the forest; every arrow that was in flight at that moment flared with brilliant white light. A bolt of energy sizzled back from each glowing arrow, following an invisible path through the air and back to the archer who had sent it forth.
Foxfire watched in horror as five of his people were blasted into ash.
He drew in a breath to call for retreat, but the sound died in a strangled gasp as all the world seemed to burst into flame. There was no heat, just a sudden, searing light that was nearly as painful.
The elf dug both fists into his eyes, trying to rub away the painful sparkles that danced and whirled behind his eyelids. When at last his eyes adjusted to the unnatural brightness, the possibility of retreat vanished from his thoughts.
The humans had dragged the captured elves into the clearing. There were seven of them, and all were alive, though the foot-hold traps-clearly visible now that they had been sprung-had inflicted terrible wounds upon them. A few men guarded them, loaded crossbows leveled at their hearts. And surrounding them was a circle of human mercenaries, swords drawn.
One of these men waved his weapon at the trees overhead and shouted something. Foxfire and Tamsin exchanged helpless shrugs-neither of them spoke the language of Tethyr's humans. Before Foxfire could call down a request for parley in the Common trade tongue, the human found another, more visual way to get his meaning across.
He spun and lunged in a single, quick movement, sinking his sword deep into one of the helpless elves. Then he turned to the forest and brandished his crimson blade. The challenge was clear, as was the price of refusal.
The first to respond was Hawkwing; she dropped to the ground with the speed of her namesake, her dagger gleaming talon-bright in her hand. Without hesitation, all the elves who could still fight followed the fierce elf maid into the circle of wizard-light and death.
In another part of Tethir, far from the clash of weapons and the scent of death, Arilyn clung to her friend's silver fur as he carried her swiftly toward the hidden den of the lythari.
She had known Ganamede from childhood, but nothing in their shared experience could have prepared her to enter the hidden world of the lythari. The den of the shapeshifting elves was not in an underground cave, as Arilyn had anticipated, but in some middle realm, an unseen world.
There was no visible passage, no magical gate; one moment they were in Tethir, the next, they were not.
Although the journey might have felt seamless, there was no mistaking that a momentous change had taken place. She and Ganamede were still in a forest, but one quite different from the dense, cool shade of Tethir. The trees were taller, more majestic, and like nothing that Arilyn had ever seen before. The air was warmer, more alive. But the most compellingly apparent change was that the waning night had been replaced by the long golden shadows of late afternoon. This was the time of day Arilyn loved most, the moment near the end of a perfect spring day that was almost heartbreaking in its beauty, a time that was almost, but not quite, twilight.
Almost twilight.
Suddenly Arilyn understood why Ganamede had insisted she cling to his back: no mortal could make the passage to these fabled realms unassisted. She slid